Hanging with Mr Cooper

Last Tuesday, I was having a post-work drink with Ses on the balcony outside the South Bank Centre when she spotted someone she thought might be famous. I turned round to look in the direction she'd indicated, and immediately met eyes with Dominic Cooper, who is indeed a bit famous, having starred in The History Boys (play and film) and Mamma Mia, among other things. I was livid he busted me looking round at him, as ever since his appearance on Never Mind The Buzzcocks last year, when he came across as a wee bit full of himself, I have felt like he might need taking down a peg or two and in an ideal world I would have pointedly ignored him. Still, once I'd been spotted spotting him, my cool was already lost, so I maximised my opportunity by having a longer look when he went past. He was dressed fairly like he is in this photo: scruffy jeans, biker boots, a black or very dark brown cropped leather jacket (zipped up) with a longer T-shirt hanging out - and longer hair. Facially and follicularly, he looked, as always, a bit grubby - poss. through over-use of bad fake tan. I long to exfoliate him.

So far, so unremarkable. But last night, also a Tuesday, I was back at the South Bank, this time at the National Theatre, and lo and behold, there was Dominic again. This time I managed not to make eye contact with him, but it was all I could do to stop myself making a Tim Henman fist of satisfaction, as this too-cool-for-school celeb was wearing exactly the same outfit as before. There are, of course, many possible explanations for this, but I have chosen to believe that Dominic has seven mufti outfits, one allocated to each day of the week, and that by spotting him on two consecutive Tuesdays, I have uncovered his fashion simplicity and am now revealing it to the world. Take that, Mr Smug.

I, of course, was not wearing the same thing to the South Bank on two consecutive Tuesdays. Last night I went straight from work in flat shoes, black trousers (slightly too tight as I am between sizes at the moment), red babydoll T-shirt (slightly misshapen as it's from Hennes and I have washed it, ooh, three times so it's really a miracle that it's still in one piece), black cropped jacket (not warm enough for suddenly brisk spring winds). I met my mother in the NT's tapas restaurant (disappointing) and then we went to see Burnt By The Sun, a play about Russia just before the Stalin onslaught, which was given five stars by The Independent, five stars by The Daily Telegraph, and about two stars by me and my mum. I had really wanted to see it as my Russia knowledge is woeful, and the acting was OK - but I didn't learn much and the script sucked. Sucked, I tell you. Not impressed. I was seated alone as mum and I had bought our tickets separately, and I had a mouth-breather on my left and a rustly woman on my right who did not sit still for more than six seconds. Every time she moved, her scratchy jacket fabric rubbed against itself - not deafening but certainly distracting, and, like all noises (particularly snoring), most annoying in its inconsistency. Growl.

This morning I woke up early again to do yoga. It actually appears to be getting more difficult the more I do it. I'm not sure how that works but I'm not particularly happy about it. My Half Moon Pose is noticeably wobblier, particularly on the left hand side, and even Camel's Pose, which I used to find quite pleasant, is now a dread-worthy moment on the DVD, especially as it is a warm up for the three Upward Bows, my nadir. Ah well. It's all part of the fun, isn't it. Right. That's enough for now. I'm off. A demain.